The enemy that lurks in our midst

Some years ago, I was involved in making a BBC TV programme about the railway running from Fort William to Mallaig. This scenic line passes at one point over the magnificent viaduct at Glenfinnan, at the head of the lonely loch which infiltrates there from the sea. This remote place is sacrosanct to Scottish romantics (for it was here that Bonnie Prince Charlie landed on Scottish soil in 1745 and met his followers, even if he addressed them in English, which they couldn't understand) and to historians of engineering (as the viaduct was the first major structure in Britain to be made out of concrete).

Some years ago, I was involved in making a BBC TV programme about the railway running from Fort William to Mallaig. This scenic line passes at one point over the magnificent viaduct at Glenfinnan, at the head of the lonely loch which infiltrates there from the sea. This remote place is sacrosanct to Scottish romantics (for it was here that Bonnie Prince Charlie landed on Scottish soil in 1745 and met his followers, even if he addressed them in English, which they couldn't understand) and to historians of engineering (as the viaduct was the first major structure in Britain to be made out of concrete).

What I most remember about our brief filming trip was the strange behaviour of the signalman who worked in Glenfinnan signal box and who agreed to leave it to talk to camera in the open air. Before he left the haven of the box, he took out a jar of thick oily cream and spread it over his face. Curious, I thought, that a railwayman should be so careful of his appearance, or sunburn, or whatever he was worried about.

As we took up our interview positions, I felt a strange crawling sensation on my eyelids. It was as if rice pudding were flowing down from my forehead. I put my hand to my eye to remove whatever it was, and found my hand was covered with tiny insects.

"Oh, aye," said the signalman, "that'll be the midges. They're terrible this time of year. That's why I was putting the cream on my face."

It was my introduction to the Scottish Highland midge, the wee beastie that haunts the glens in summer. Occasionally, you get splash features on it in the English papers, but on the whole the Scottish tourist people succeed in keeping it out of the media. Talk as much as you like about the haggis, the grouse, the salmon and the deer is their message, but don't mention the most savage of all Scottish predators: the midge.

Most Scots don't know much about it either. I was once rung up by the literary editor of The Herald, in Glasgow, who had received a new book for review which was a history and profile of the Highland midge.

"Fancy some egghead devoting a whole book to an insect!" he scoffed. "I am sure you could have some fun with this, Miles!"

I recalled Glenfinnan, and the day I was tortured by the little fellows, and when the signalman went to such lengths to avoid persecution.

"I would not be disposed to make fun of such a book," I said.

"Oo, get you," he said, or Scottish words to that effect. "Well, we'll just let it sink into obscurity, then."

Two weeks later, he rang back, sounding chastened.

"I am afraid to say you were right," he said. "That book on midges is No 1 on the Scottish bestseller list. I am glad you didn't let us take the mickey, Miles."

During my recent stay in mid-Canada, I found they, too, suffer from a summer insect; in every damp warm place you wander into, a terrorist cell of mosquitoes is waiting to fly a suicide mission against you. That terrible whining sound ... that awful silence as the engine cuts out ... the painful impact ... Or is it doodle bugs I'm thinking of? Never mind. They are both very nasty.

Not that the Canadians seem too bothered, any more than the Scots seem unduly obsessed about the midges. Every country, I am convinced, has a pest which is loathed by visitors and taken for granted by the natives. We have one such in England. The last time my wife and I had a visitor from South Africa, there was one thing he came to dread, and used to curse every time it stung him.

"Damned things!" he would say. "We have nothing like this in Africa. They are everywhere, and they are so painful! And they look so harmless!"

Any idea what this British scourge was? Why, it was the common stinging nettle! Makes you think, doesn't it?